Eye of the Storm
by My Name Is Nicole
Summary: Are you tired of stories where Tris is a sobbing wreck and needs a knight in shining armor to save her? Good. Because this isn't that sort of story. Tris pushes herself to the brink, and Eric is there to give her one final shove off the ledge. Watch as they consume each other. Eris!
1. It begins

I look at each of the bowls, my pulse pounding in my ears as I consider what they represent.

Amity wood, for the kind.

Candor glass, for the honest.

Erudite water, for the smart.

Abnegation rocks, for the selfless.

And finally…

Dauntless fire. For the brave.

All my life, I've lived within the colorless walls of the Abnegation compound. I've wandered through my days as if in a dream, drifting from one pointless task to another, spurred on by a forced obligation to keep my head down and to not think about myself. To constantly smother myself so as to not shine too bright.

But now, for the first time in my life, I finally have the power to _choose_.

I pick up the knife and slice deeply into my palm. There are a few startled gasps from the Amity and Abnegation sections as blood starts dripping down my hand and onto the auditorium floor. Most initiates simply prick their fingers, but for what I am about to do, I can't afford anything less than total commitment.

For a brief second, I wonder if this is how my brother Caleb felt, right before he spilt his blood into the Erudite bowl. I wonder whether he thought of the betrayal our parents would feel, or the difficulties he would face, starting a new life in a completely new faction.

But then I realize that it hardly matters anymore.

Faction before blood.

I lift my bleeding hand over the fiery Dauntless bowl, and watch as my blood splatters and sizzles over the coals.

"Beatrice Prior… Dauntless!" announces the Abnegation leader Marcus Eaton, prompting a small smattering of confused applause from the auditorium. Everyone seems shocked that someone like me, someone who to this point has been so meek and unassuming, has now signed her life away to the warrior faction. But it doesn't matter what they feel. Because for the very first time, it only matters what I feel. And as I sit down amidst a sea of black, I get a thrill of something that feels remarkably like...

Victory.

As the ceremony goes on, I look around and spot my parents in the crowd. My mom is looking back at me and smiling, but my dad is staring straight ahead, his back rigid and his posture severe.

I also seek out my brother Caleb in the Erudite section. As soon as we see each other, he jerks his head away as if stung. It hurts more than it should. Why didn't he tell me he was planning to transfer?

My hand is still dripping blood, so I tear a piece of cloth from the bottom of my grey Abnegation skirt and carefully tie it around my palm. Everything is suddenly much less certain. I have no idea what awaits me in my new life. Dauntless initiation is largely considered to be the toughest, and as a smaller girl, I've never been encouraged to do anything strenuous or athletic. Would I even be able to make it?

I would.

No, I _will_.

The rest of the Choosing Ceremony goes by in a blur, until suddenly it ends and the Dauntless around me are racing out of the auditorium. The Abnegation are always the last to leave, but by the time I realize that I'm no longer beholden to the rules of Abnegation, most of the Dauntless are already through the doors and I have to sprint to catch up.

"What's the matter Stiff, lagging behind already?" Sneers a Candor transfer as I catch up to the group in the field outside the Auditorium. He is taller and more muscular than any of the other transfers, with plain brown hair and muddy eyes that gleam with hidden cruelty. Abnegation has little in the way of physical activity, and I am already struggling to catch my breath, so I don't bother responding to his insult.

"Typical Stiff, can't even stand up for herself," he taunts again.

I shoot him a nasty glare, and then turn away to ignore him. My legs are burning, but in a strange way, it actually feels good. I can challenge myself, and challenge my physical limits, because I am no longer obligated to be weak – now, I am expected to be strong.

And I'll show them just how strong I can really be.

I reach the railing of the train tracks right behind the Dauntless initiates, who have already begun scaling the huge metal structure. I've never climbed anything before in my life, but I don't think twice as I circle to the other side and jump to grasp onto the metal grating. My injured hand shrieks in agony, but I ignore the fresh plume of blood on my makeshift bandage and climb steadily upwards, pausing only to see where my next handhold is.

I think I'm doing well, until about three feet from the top, I look up to see that there is nothing left for me to grab onto.

I'm stuck.

The other initiates are all climbing up the other side, and from the pace they crest over the top, there must be some sort of support structure on that side spanning the length of the gap. I nearly growl with frustration. But as I continue to hang there, I realize that my predicament is far more serious than I first realized. My arms are wobbly from the climb, and my grip is slippery with fresh blood from my palm. I have to do something soon, because I might not be able to hold on for much longer.

But I refuse to fall down and _die_. Not here. And not now.

So with an almighty lurch, I bunch up my legs and jump into open air with my arms outstretched. My heart stops, and for a moment I'm positive that I'm not going to make it, that I'm going to plummet to my death…!

I feel the cutting edge of metal beneath my fingertips and grasp onto the ledge for dear life. My deathly grip is the only thing keeping me alive as my body sways with the momentum of the leap. Everything bursts into crystal clarity, and all my senses are hyper aware as I swing perilously over open air.

With a monumentous heave, I pull myself up by my arms and clamber over the edge.

My arms feel like rubber, my hand is bleeding, and my heart is pounding with adrenaline. But I don't have any time to catch my breath – the train is already rounding the corner and barreling onto the platform. The Dauntless-born initiates immediately begin jumping onto the moving train, their movements quick and confident. The transfer initiates begin to follow suit with more hesitation.

Now or never.

I shove away whatever pain I'm feeling and start sprinting towards the tracks. My arms and legs piston to make great leaping strides, each one bringing me closer to the train. Only a few people are left on the platform, including an Erudite girl who is sobbing and trembling like a leaf, and a Candor boy who can't seem to run fast enough to catch up to the train. If I was still in Abnegation it would be my duty to stop and help them. But I'm in Dauntless now, and the train is almost clear of the platform, so I merely pump my arms and run faster.

I am nearing the end of the tracks, and once again, I realize that I might very well die. But at this point, nothing else matters except getting on that blasted train.

So with another death-defying leap, I launch myself into open air towards the final compartment. My knees bash against the bottom of the door, but my bloody hands manage to clutch the side of the railing, and with one final pull, I topple headfirst into the compartment.

 _I made it._

"Well shit, you sure know how to make an entrance!" states a Candor girl with kind brown eyes and dusky skin. Her tone is appreciative rather than mocking, but I don't bother to respond. Instead, I take a moment to catch my breath and kiss the solid metal flooring.

"What a freak," mutters the same boy who had jeered at me earlier.

"Guys, Brian just jumped!" announces a blonde Candor boy. Everyone rushes to crowd around him by the door, already forgetting about my dramatic entrance.

"Oh my god… Oh my god! Is he dead?"

"What the fuck do you think, Christina?" scowls the boy with cruel eyes. "He just fell like fifty feet onto cement. Of course he's dead."

"Shut the fuck up, Peter!" Christina snarls.

"Can we all just show some decency?" interjects the blonde Candor boy. He is almost as tall as Peter, but his watery blue eyes project an image of compassion rather than strength. "We've known him since Lower-levels. And now he's dead."

The mood turns somber, and Peter rolls his eyes. "Whatever, Al. He wasn't fit for Dauntless anyway. None of you saps are. So while you sit here and cry about it, I'm gonna go find some people who are actually worth my time."

And with that, he stomps off into the next compartment.

"What an asshole," Christina mutters.

"I just don't understand, why did he jump?" Al wonders aloud.

I am about to answer, to tell him that jumping and dying is better than not jumping at all – that it was better for him to have one final moment of strength than to live forever in weakness – but a boy with wavy black hair and blue eyes, an Erudite transfer, answers instead.

"Because he didn't want to be factionless," he states simply.

"What do you mean?" Christina asks.

"Isn't it obvious?" he answers. "This is all a test to weed out anyone who isn't strong enough to be Dauntless. Anyone who didn't make it? They're out. Factionless."

Christina gasps, but really, I don't see what's so surprising about it. Dauntless is the warrior faction. If you can't keep up, then you aren't meant to be in Dauntless. But I know enough to keep my mouth shut, because my thoughts sound remarkably like what Peter had said earlier, and I doubt they would be welcome right now.

"So that girl who didn't jump…" Al speculates.

"Her name is Maria. She is a good friend of mine. Or, was a good friend of mine," the Erudite boy corrects himself. "My name is Will, by the way."

His introduction sets off a round of introductions, which seem to break the gloom of Brian's death and the knowledge that their positions in Dauntless are anything but assured. Since I already know their names, I tune them out, and instead opt to tear another strip off the bottom of my skirt to re-bandage my cut. I'm relieved to see that it has finally stopped bleeding, and tie it up in the simple gray cloth.

Just as it is my turn to introduce myself, the train starts slowing down, and Christina peeks her head out of the open door. "It looks like everyone is getting off!"

"Well then we better not wait," Will states, walking over to the opening. He looks at Christina, and they wordlessly nod and latch their hands together before jumping off of the train. Al follows behind them. And although I am hesitant to leave the safety of the train so soon after almost dying twice, I force myself not to think about it as I fling myself out and roll onto the gravel-topped roof. It's a painful landing, and I land with too much force on my already bruised knees – but I make it. And really, that's all that matters.

A Dauntless-born girl does not, and we all hear her scream as she falls off the train and down to the pavement below. Her scream is abruptly silenced, and we all know what that means.

The train whizzes by and disappears as it curves beyond the building. The stunned silence is broken by an ear-piercing wail of despair. I instinctively flinch and turn to witness as two Dauntless-born initiates trying to restrain a third, who by the way she's crying out, must be the sister of the girl that just died. All the other initiates stand around somberly, looking at each other and wondering what to do.

"Good to see you all finally made it. Or I guess I should say, _some_ of you," sneers a carelessly malicious voice to my left. I whip my head around and lock eyes with the single most intimidating man I've ever seen. His cold gray eyes bore into mine and shred through my defenses like razor wire. I'm paralyzed by the irrational fear that he can somehow see into my mind. My very _soul_.

After a brief moment, he looks away dismissively. As if I'm not even worth his time.

The effect is an extreme internal maelstrom of some of the most disconcerting things I've ever felt. Surprise, fear, confusion… but mostly anger.

He judged me to be unworthy.

And that's something I can't allow.

His cold eyes gleam as they appraise the rest of the initiates, lingering on the Dauntless girl who is still sobbing hysterically at the loss of her sister. His mouth twitches in undisguised annoyance. I put two and two together, and quickly realize that he doesn't care if initiates have already died, nor if the remaining initiates have just witnessed it. In fact, he seems supremely displeased by such an open showing of grief.

His casual disdain is so utterly foreign to me that I can't help but stare at him in fascination. In Abnegation, everyone is expected to huddle around and offer sympathy if anyone so much as gets a paper cut. Funerals are long drawn out affairs that the entire community is expected cry at, regardless of whether you actually knew the person or not. But that's Abnegation. This is Dauntless. And from the man's growing sneer, it's clear that he considers it weak to mourn the dead.

He is still sizing everyone up, so I take the opportunity to examine him further. He is obscenely muscular, and his vest does nothing to hide the thick biceps that bulge beneath his crossed arms like they're about to burst through his skin. His body is littered with tattoos, with two mechanical ones running down both of his forearms and two blocky ones that trail down his neck. He has two piercings above his left eyebrow, and his dirty blonde hair is shaved on both sides of his head.

But such things are merely superficial – I've seen Dauntless with tattoos and piercings before, and none of them made half the impression on me that he did.

So what makes him so special?

Maybe it's his stance, and the way he stands so confidently on the ledge of what looks like a very steep drop behind him.

Maybe it's his eyes, and the way that they sized me up so thoroughly before I even had the chance to blink.

Or maybe its just him. He radiates power and ruthlessness. He is a leader, a warrior… maybe even a killer. He is everything I have always imagined a perfect Dauntless to be.

And he found me lacking.

The knowledge leaves an bitter taste in my mouth that is difficult to swallow. I cannot blame anyone else but myself for my failure.

But I also have the potential to get stronger.

And so, before he's even said one word to me, I have decided to do everything in my power to prove myself to this man. To show him that I'm not as weak as the still-sobbing Dauntless girl. Because if he judges me to be worthy, then I will have truly earned my spot in Dauntless.

He seems to be satisfied with looking us over, because he snorts and starts speaking once more. "My name is Eric, and I'm one of the Leaders here in Dauntless. Since some of you look too pathetic to tie your own shoelaces, I'll remind you of who we are. Dauntless protect the city and keep it from spiraling into chaos. We're the only ones strong enough to maintain order, the only ones brave enough to face danger, and the only ones who put our lives on the line every fucking day!"

I flinch at his profanity. In Abnegation, a Leader using curse words in public is simply unheard of.

His steely eyes dart back to me, and his mouth drawls into a cruel smirk before they drift away again. "The next few weeks will be difficult. You will be pushed like you've never been pushed before. Some of you won't make it. But if you truly want to be Dauntless, if you truly want to prove yourselves worthy of being one of us, you'll have to leap headfirst into the abyss and embrace everything that we stand for. And that starts right now."

He gestures to the empty chasm behind him, and I realize that he means for us to jump down there. It's almost too perfect. Because after all the deathly leaps I've made today, what's one more?

This time, I'm ready for it.

"You don't seriously expect us to jump down there, do you?" calls out a red-haired Candor girl standing next to Peter. While everybody is distracted by her outburst, I make my way through the crowd and next to the ledge.

"That's exactly what I expect!" Eric spits. "That is, if any of you are actually brave enough to –"

He doesn't get the chance to finish because I have already stepped forward and onto the ledge. I am standing level with Eric now, though he is still so tall that he towers over me, and I am pleased to see a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

"I'll do it," I state simply.

His mouth curls into another taunting smirk. "Well then go ahead Stiff. If you dare."

I look down, and realize that the hole is so deep that I cannot see the bottom. I inch closer, trying to decide the best way to jump in. I notice that the opening is surrounded by jagged metal.

"She can't do it! She's too scared!" Peter jeers, earning a few chuckles from the group.

I tune him out. The sharp metal is worrisome because it could easily catch on my skirt, which is still quite long despite the two bandage strips I tore from it. Deciding modesty is not more important than my life, I reach around and untie my skirt, letting it pool to the ground before stepping out clad in just my dull grey leggings.

"Woo, Stiff! Take it off!" Peter catcalls. I bend down and ball-up my skirt before throwing it viciously in his direction, smacking him right in the face with it.

"Enough!" Eric barks, glaring at Peter before turning back towards me. "I don't have all day, initiate."

He doesn't need to ask twice.

I smile and give him a cheeky two-finger salute, amazed at my own daring, before diving headfirst into the gaping chasm below.

He did, after all, say headfirst.

I hear someone behind me scream, but the noise is quickly drowned out by the whoosh of wind as I go soaring through empty air.

 _I'm flying!_

There is no fear. It doesn't even matter whether there will be something down there to break my fall, or whether these are the last few moments of my life. Because in this moment, I am far beyond my old life and all of its self-imposed rules. I am truly, finally, free.

A joyous laughter bursts forth from deep within my stomach, the sound of it echoing through the empty chasm.

I am still laughing as I belly-flop into the net.

It takes a few bounces for my momentum to dissipate, and then the net is being pulled down to my right, so I obligingly roll in that direction. A stern but attractive man with deep blue eyes helps me down. He looks at me at asks, "What's your name, initiate?"

"Be-" I start to say, before stopping myself. Beatrice Prior was the meek Abnegation girl who was never in control of her own life. And I'm not that girl anymore.

"You can choose a new name," he advises me. "But only once, and then you're stuck with it."

I nod in understanding. I think for a few moments, and then like a spark, it comes to me.

"My name is Tris."

He nods approvingly, writes something down on his clipboard, and then announces, "First jumper, Tris!"

I hear a roar of applause, and I am shocked as more lights flicker on to reveal a crowd of Dauntless surrounding us on a balcony.

"Go wait over there," he instructs, pointing to an area off to the side. I follow his instructions, still amazed that I am actually being applauded. Being the first person to jump must be some sort of special thing.

Once the cheers die down, I wait as one after another, the other initiates jump down into the net. Some only let out a single cry of fear, and some scream bloody murder the entire way down. But none are silent, and certainly nobody laughs like I had.

Maybe Peter was right. Maybe I am a freak?

Eventually, everyone makes their way down, with some petite Erudite girl being the last to jump. I look up expectantly, waiting for Eric to jump down, but it seems he's not joining us. Instead, a blonde woman with spikey flower tattoos all over her face hops down from the balcony.

"Good job," she says to me. "I would've never guessed a Stiff would jump first."

"Thanks," I say uncertainly, not sure whether to take that as a compliment or insult.

She laughs, and then ambles over to stand next to the stern man, who makes one last tick on his clipboard before launching into a quick speech.

"Welcome to Dauntless. My name is Four, and this is Lauren. I'll be training the transfer initiates, while she'll be training the rest of you. You'll have other chances to get to know each other, but for now, transfer initiates follow me."

And so the group splits up, a mass of about forty kids in black following Lauren, while our motley little crew of nine follows Four. We don't even look like we belong in Dauntless. Only Four looks like he belongs, clad in a black leather jacket and jeans. But even still, he doesn't have any tattoos or piercings that I can see, which makes him rather clean-cut as far as Dauntless is concerned. It suits his stern personality quite well.

As we walk, Four starts giving us a tour and a rundown of the rules we are supposed to follow. No murder, rape, theft, or vandalism seem rather obvious, but I listen intently all the same.

"And finally, do not fight with each other outside of training!" Four lectures, scowling intensely. "You'll have plenty of opportunities to fight while I can supervise you. The last thing I need is one of you getting hurt because of something stupid. So don't do it, unless you want to piss me off. However, if for any reason one of you does happen to get hurt, the infirmary is right down that hall."

He gestures towards a hallways leading off the main corridor, before continuing onwards. He walks us down a hallway into a large room filled with uncomfortable-looking cots.

"This will be your living area for the duration of your training. You're expected to keep it tidy at all times. If it ever gets messy, you'll be doing push-ups all morning."

There are no walls or anything to separate the girls from the boys, and I wonder how exactly we are supposed to dress or undress.

"In back are the toilets and showers. I don't care how often you shower, just don't show up stinking to high hell or I'll hose you down myself. Are we clear?"

I nod my understanding, but I am in the process of having a small mental meltdown. The toilets and showers are all completely open! There are no dividers, no curtains, just a line of toilets and sinks on one side and a row of shower heads sticking out of the wall on the other. What am I supposed to do, go to the bathroom and shower naked in front of boys I don't know?

Despite my growing panic, I am smart enough not to say anything. Christina, coming from Candor, is not.

"You mean there aren't separate bathrooms and showers for girls and boys?" she asks, clearly aghast at the idea.

"You're not girls and boys anymore," he snaps. "You're adults, and now you're Dauntless adults. So yes, you'll be shitting and showering together. Anybody else have a problem with it?"

I certainly do, but I keep my mouth shut. Instead of complaining, I'm already thinking of ways to get around it, like getting up early and showering in my bra and underwear.

Nobody else speaks up, so Four starts walking again. We all follow like ducklings behind their mother.

"Up ahead is the training room. You're expected to be there at 7am sharp every morning. If you're late, don't even bother showing up that day," he threatens ominously. "You'll be sleeping and training separately from the Dauntless initiates, but be warned – you'll be ranked together."

"Ranked?" Al blurts out. I cringe, but Four doesn't seem to mind the question.

"Yes, ranked. There are three stages of your training, and you'll be evaluated during each of them. All of the initiates will be ranked together, and after Stage 1 and Stage 3, the lowest ranking initiates will be cut."

"Cut?" the red-head next to Peter exclaims. "I wouldn't have signed up for this if I knew only some of us would make it!"

"Then you signed up for the wrong faction!" roars a voice, but it's not Four. It's Eric, who has somehow met up with us in the hallway. "A true Dauntless isn't afraid of failing! The survival of everyone in this city depends on you being strong enough to protect it. If you can't keep up, then we're not going to risk people's lives, or waste our time, trying to catch you up. You chose us, but now, we get to choose you."

It might seem harsh, but his words ring true to my ears. Because while it is intimidating to be pitted against the other initiates, I can't deny that it'll motivate me even more. I was already determined to do whatever it took to earn my spot – to show that I wasn't weak or pathetic. And now, I actually have the chance to prove that I'm better than them. I smile at the realization, which earns me a sharp look from Eric.

"Eric, what are you even doing here?" Four asks wearily.

"Nothing in particular," he shrugs, his tone switching from hostility to cold nonchalance in the blink of an eye. "Seeing as my part in this whole intro-shindig is done, I was just on my way to the Pit for a drink. Mind if I tag along?"

I have no idea where he has entered from, or whether our corridor does happen to be in the path from there to the Pit, but from Four's suspicious glance, it seems unlikely to be the case. Still, Eric is a Leader, and while I don't yet know Four's rank, it is clearly below Eric's, so he answers with an equally nonchalant "Sure."

"Excellent," Eric replies, his chilly smile obviously fake.

Four continues his tour, I guess deciding that the best way to proceed is by pretending that Eric isn't there. Eric obliges him, and lingers near the back of the group. Without really thinking about it, I lag behind to walk next to him. But as soon as I'm beside him, I realize that I've made a terrible mistake. Danger leaks from his every pore and surrounds him like a storm cloud. This close to him, there must be at least a hundred different ways that he could kill me, if he so chose.

I wonder if I'm suicidal, or just stupid, for willingly exposing myself to his presence.

"You're a smartass," he suddenly comments without looking at me. As if I'm too far below his notice to merit eye contact. "You've got no muscle, no fighting skills, and I'm sure you've never even killed a bug."

He is silent for a few moments, and I wonder how exactly I am supposed to respond to this, when he surprises me by saying, "But I like your style. So you better not fucking disappoint me."

I turn to him, my gaze intense enough to make him glance at me. His cold grey eyes connect with my hazel, and I do my best not to flinch.

"I won't," I swear to him, the words uttered with fiery determination. "But you're wrong."

He snickers, as if the very thought of him being wrong about something is amusing, but he humors me by asking, "Oh yeah? How so?"

I hesitate, but only for a moment. "When I was a kid, I used to burn ants with a magnifying glass," I admit, unsure of why I'm doing so. I doubt he will be horrified like my father was when I made the mistake of telling him, but I'm almost positive he's going to mock me for it.

Instead, he chuckles loudly and deeply. I tense at the unexpected sound, and then feel perversely comforted when I realize it retains a cutting edge of menace to it.

"No shit?" he asks.

"No shit," I affirm, the curse-word slipping from my mouth as easily as water, despite it being the very first time I've ever used one.

He is still grinning when we exit the corridor into a giant subterranean villa. A river spills from a gap in the stone and down into a chasm below, with a rickety metal bridge spanning the gap. After the bridge the path trails down in a long spiral, with several shops and hallways branching out, and ends at what looks like a bar and general hangout area near the bottom of the pit. Other than the slippery bridge, there are no railings along the path, which is rocky and full of treacherous stairs.

"This is my exit," Eric announces. For a moment, I think he is still talking to me, until Four nods back at him.

Eric takes off without another word, sprinting full speed down the path and leaping over an entire flight of stairs like it was nothing. I stare after him in amazement. Of course he didn't bother being careful. Why would he? Being careful would imply that he is cautious, or afraid of getting hurt. And he is neither.

Four is talking again, explaining about the Pit and the chasm, but I tune him out, figuring it's fairly self-explanatory. The Pit is the bar at the bottom, the chasm is the giant chasm the river disappears into, and the shops are the shops. He then leads us about halfway down and then gestures towards a collection of shimmering buildings that start where we're standing and dominate the cavern up to the glass ceiling, beyond which sparkles the starry nighttime sky. "Those are the apartments, and where you'll be living if you make it through initiation. There are some apartments higher up, near the Pire, but those are reserved for Leaders."

Well, at least we get better living arrangements once we get through initiation. I stare at the twinkling amber glass near the top and wonder which of the rooms Eric lives in, before realizing that it's a completely inappropriate train of thought, and force myself to stop thinking about it immediately.

Four then gestures to a building next to the apartments that has a steady stream of Dauntless coming in and out of it. "That's the cafeteria. We have meal times, but there's always something being served if you want a quick bite to eat. Breakfast starts at 5:30am, lunch starts at noon, and dinner is being served right now. There's a welcoming party going on for all the new initiates, so get your food in the cafeteria and then head down to the Pit."

At that, everyone looks at each other excitedly.

"So, any questions?" Four asks.

Nobody says anything, apparently satisfied with the tour and eager to get going.

"Alright then. Just remember, your training starts tomorrow, so don't stay up too late or get too drunk. And once again, welcome to Dauntless."

With that, Four turns around and bolts down the stairs to the Pit. He's quick, but not nearly as quick as Eric. It's clear that Four goes fast because he wants to reach his destination, whereas Eric goes fast as some sort of personal challenge.

With Four gone, the transfer initiates all look at each other, and then break off into smaller groups. Two of the Erudites wander away together holding hands, marking themselves as a couple. Christina starts chattering with Al and Will as they all head into the cafeteria. Peter makes a face at me, and then goes off with his little group of Candor transfers consisting of the obnoxious red-head girl and a boy with caramel skin.

I am left alone.

I feel the telltale sting of rejection, but I roughly shove it down. I've never had any friends, so being alone suits me just fine. Besides, they're being idiots. Our first day of training is tomorrow, and we're going to be ranked against kids who have been in Dauntless their entire lives. I don't know about the other initiates, but I know one thing – I need as much extra training and practice as I can get.

No muscles and no fighting skills, Eric had said. Well, he was right. I have a slim build, and I have never been in anything resembling a fight. I would need someone to help me with fighting skills, but muscles…

I eyeball the path back up to the bridge appraisingly. Eric had treated it like an obstacle, a challenge to be conquered. If I wanted to be more like him, the most logical way to go about it was to start doing the same things as him.

My mind made up, I start sprinting up the path. My muscles protest almost as soon as I begin – I've exerted myself more in the last few hours than I have my entire life, and my body isn't used to such strain. But I know that this is only the beginning. Things will only get harder and harder. So I suck it up and keep moving, clambering up the stairs and slopes as fast as I can, eyes glued to the path in front of me to prevent any missteps. My breathing quickly becomes labored, and little beads of sweat begin forming on my skin.

 _Good_ , I think savagely. This is what I want. I want to work the hardest, to hurt the most, to be the best.

It is with this mantra pounding through my head that I reach the bridge. I don't even hesitate before turning around and starting back down. Going down is less physically exerting, but requires greater perception. The rock is riddled with potholes in some spots, and worn down into a slippery surface in others. My entire concentration is focused on making sure my feet land in safe places so that I won't slip and go tumbling down into the Pit. I'm huffing and puffing by the time I reach the bottom, but I am once again exhilarated. The challenge, the ability to overcome my weakness, the power to take control of my own life – I can think of no better way to spend my evening, and it shows in the pained smile plastered on my face.

I run, and run, and then run some more, up and down, until I am flying so high on adrenaline that I can scarcely feel my legs. I barely acknowledge the other initiates walking past me as they head back to the dorm, as I'm too caught up in the movement of my muscles and the pounding of my feet against the rocky stairwell. I am quicker and more confident with each lap I take. I am exploring the possibilities of my body, how it moves, and how to push past the limits that had always been imposed on it.

 _I can do anything._ The thought comes, and with it, a surge of intoxicating glee that threatens to overwhelm me.

I have been what other people expected me to be for so long, that I'd forgotten I could choose to be someone else. Someone strong. Someone _dangerous_.

Beatrice Prior is dead.

My name is _Tris_.

Nobody stops me, and in fact, nobody even seems to find it odd that a girl in Abnegation clothes is running up and down the path like a crazy person. So by the time I stop running, at least several hours have gone by, and it is much later at night than I had intended. My legs feel like rubber, and even my abdomen and arms feel a little wobbly. The thought of food is unappealing, but I know from Mid-level biology that the human body needs protein to form muscle, so I set my sights on the cafeteria.

I jog inside, anything slower seeming abnormal due to how long I've just been running. There are a few middle-aged Dauntless sitting and chatting at a table, but otherwise the cafeteria is empty. I meander over to a pair of metal bins containing the remnants of today's dinner and grab three cold hamburgers and two bottles of water. I chug the first water bottle standing right there next to the water cooler, and although I get the urge to throw it all back up, pure willpower keeps it down. I crumple up the empty bottle and toss it into the recycling bin. I pop open the second, taking smaller sips as I sit down onto a random bench to eat my food.

Suddenly, I'm ravenous, and I realize that I haven't eaten since breakfast. I polish off the first two hamburgers in less than ten minutes, an impressive feat considering I've never eaten such rich food before. Beef was considered too indulgent for Abnegation – instead, we ate boiled chicken and unseasoned vegetables.

I scowl at the memory, my cheeks stuffed with hamburger.

So much of Abnegation was about punishing yourself, about convincing yourself that you weren't worthy of anything but the barest life necessities. The fact that I had considered staying there, even for a moment, almost makes me sick.

Tori, the woman who administered my Aptitude Test, had told me it would be safer to stay in Abnegation since I was Divergent – whatever the heck that meant. But I would choose trembling muscles and the threat of death, over boiled chicken and mindless safety, any day of the week. I could never go back. Not now, that I finally know what it feels like to be alive.

I eat my third hamburger more slowly, savoring the taste of spices that I'm sure were delicious when the beef was warm and juicy. I take sips of water in between bites, forcing it all down. When I finally consume the last crumb, I stand up.

It's late, and I feel absolutely filthy, so the best thing for me to do is to take a shower and go to sleep. So with a new mission in mind, I trot out of the cafeteria and break into a run once I'm on the path again. It's amazing how much easier it is than just a few hours ago. I know where to step, and at what sections I can accelerate. I don't need to slow back down until I reach the bridge and head into the poorly lit hallway where the dorms are located. I creep my way forward in the dark, cursing myself for losing track of time so thoroughly. But the corridor is straight, and there's nothing treacherous about it, so I soon find my way back to the pitch black dorm room where everyone is seemingly asleep.

I grope my way along the edge of the wall, following the wall until I reach the ceramic plating that marks the start of the showers. I quickly shrug off my Abnegation jacket, shirt, and leggings, but leave on my bra and underwear, as I don't want to wander around wet and naked in the dark. The water is icy cold when I first turn it on, but soon it heats up enough to be bearable, and I hop underneath the stream. I don't actually have any soap, so I settle for scrubbing my skin and letting the water wash away the accumulated dirt and grime. My fingers run through my hair to release it from its tight braid. I know my hair will be dry and frizzy tomorrow since I don't have any soap, but I'm happy enough to have a clean scalp.

All the necessities done, I turn the water off, and do my best not to shiver as the cold air hits me. Balling my dirty clothes against my chest, I make my way back towards the room, waving my hands in front of me like a blind person.

"Tris!" someone hisses to my left. It sounds like Christina.

"Yeah?" I whisper back.

"Don't be stupid, follow my voice! I saved you a bed."

I am immensely grateful that I don't have to wander from bed to bed, naked and shivering, to see which one is empty. Instead, I walk over to where I heard her, my eyes adjusting enough to see her form sitting upright in a bed.

"Here," she guides, taking my hand as I reach out. She pulls me forward and then pushes me onto the bed next to hers. "That's yours. Now get some sleep, we have to be up early tomorrow!"

Satisfied that I have found my bed, she lays back down. I feel around, and find a crisply folded outfit has been placed on the center of the bed. I quickly shove my arms into the shirt, and yank the pants on over my damp underwear.

Only once I am properly clothed do I finally untuck my sheets and climb into the bed.

"Thank you," I whisper to Christina.

She doesn't respond, and perhaps she is already asleep. But something tells me she isn't. Instead, I get the sense that we have both already said everything we need to say.

So with a soft sigh and groan, I finally roll over and fall into blissful oblivion.


	2. The first day

My eyes flit open in panicked confusion. Where am I? Why is my bed so lumpy? Why is everything so dark?

But then it all comes crashing back. I am in Dauntless, in a Dauntless bed, deep underground in the Dauntless compound. And by the gentle cadence of breathing and snores around the room, it seems I am the first one awake. I roll over in my bed and nearly cry out as spasms of pain shoot through my limbs. Each movement is a new lesson on how much agony the human body can actually feel. But I know that I can't coddle myself, no matter how much I'm hurting. In fact just the opposite – the pain should be used as extra motivation. Waking up early is an advantage, and it would be stupid of me to waste it.

So I stand up. My eyes are adjusted well enough for me to head to the bathroom and relieve myself with some much needed privacy. Once that's done, I walk back to my cot. There are a pair of socks and boots sitting atop a leather training vest by the foot of the bed, none of which I noticed last night. I put them on, the boots molding against my feet and the vest slipping over my arms like a second skin. Dressed in black leather, I finally look like I might actually belong here.

Quietly, I make my way out of the room, wondering what time it is. The darkness does not seem quite as thick as it did last night, so it must be fairly early in the morning. That notion is confirmed once I exit the hall and onto the bridge, where the glass ceiling reveals a murky purple sky. The Pit is mostly empty save for a few stragglers going about their business, none of whom pay any attention to me.

With a groan of masochistic stubbornness, I force myself to stop standing around and start jogging down the path. I should be able to do at least two laps before getting breakfast, no matter how much it hurts. And oh, does it hurt. My legs howl are is so much agony that I wince with every step I take. But I block it out. I block out everything except the steady determination to put one foot in front of the other and keep going.

 _Left, right. Left, right. Left…left…left…_

I am still a little drowsy, and before I even have the chance to process what's happening, I accidentally step in the wrong spot and slip.

 _ **OH CRAP!**_

Time slows down, and adrenaline courses through my veins as I realize I am inches away from falling to my death. My arms windmill frantically, until with a ponderous tipping of momentum, my body falls away from the edge and back onto the safety of the path. There is a jarring thump as my rear end smacks against the stone.

My hands shake, and everything around me moves as if I'm swimming through a thick vat of syrup. In a split second, I see every shimmer from the glassy apartments above, I hear every gurgle from the river below, and I smell the scent of baked bread wafting enticingly from the cafeteria. And then with a screech, everything starts moving normally again. As if it never happened at all.

I gingerly pick myself up off the floor. Nothing around me reflects the fact that I almost just died. If my momentum had pitched the other way, my head would be cracked open and leaking brain juice on the stone below.

But it didn't. And it wasn't.

Hysterical laughter suddenly bubbles forth from deep within my gut, and I start running again, uncaring of the pain in my legs or that my laughter is making my breaths come in desperate hacking spurts. I don't even question whether it's healthy for me to feel such joy at nearly plummeting to my death. Life and death, so perfectly balanced – every moment is a gift. I've never been so certain of the utter _rightness_ of anything before in my life. So I keep running, and two laps turns into three, which somehow turns into five.

On my fifth lap, my stomach grumbles with hunger, so I finally decide to go get some breakfast. As I head in, I realize that the cafeteria is a bit fuller than it had been last night, and several groups of Dauntless sit scattered around the tables. But it's still early enough that there isn't a line for the food, so I go on up and grab a chocolate muffin and two sandwiches filled with eggs, cheese, and bacon, remembering to grab two water bottles as I pass by the cooler.

I settle on an empty bench off to the side, and waste no time sinking my teeth into one of the sandwiches. Grease runs down my chin as I gobble it down, but I don't even care. It's easily the best thing I've ever tasted. Next I take a huge chomp out of the steaming muffin. Little melted drops of chocolate smear on my lips as I roll my eyes back in shear ecstasy. I was wrong. THIS is the best thing I've ever tasted. I scarf down the rest of the muffin, the delectable pieces of chocolatey goodness not standing a chance against my hungry mouth. The muffin is thick and bready, so it's an easy choice to chug a bottle of water to wash it all down. Next I set my eyes on the second sandwich. My stomach is uncomfortably full, but my mind is still eager to eat more of this delicious Dauntless food. Besides, I rationalize as I take a huge bite, I need to eat as much as I can if I want to bulk up. So down the hatch it goes. It's a struggle to finish the final few bites, but I manage to do it with the help of intermittent sips of water.

Finished with my food, I stand up and throw my garbage away into the appropriate recycling containers, grabbing a napkin from the dispenser to wipe the grease and chocolate off my face. A quick scan the cafeteria reveals a clock hanging on the far wall that displays the time as 5:55am. A few more people have wandered into the cafeteria, but there is still no sign of the other initiates, which means they must still be asleep. At least my Abnegation background is useful for something – being a late riser in Abnegation was considered lazy and selfish, and as a result, my body has been trained to wake up early. And since I now have some extra time to spare, I might as well do something productive.

Maybe scope out the training room?

With that objective in mind, I trot back up the path to the bridge, my muscles angrily protesting the action. Needless to say, they are summarily ignored. The corridor leading away from the bridge is no longer dark, so it's easy to find the way to the training room Four had pointed out yesterday. But my hand hesitates as it reaches for the handle. What if I was somehow breaking the rules by coming here early? Would I get in trouble? It seems unlikely that Dauntless would punish recruits for trying to get in a bit of extra practice, but then again, Four seems like an unusually strict instructor.

 _Whatever_ , I finally decide. I'm already here, and I'm brave enough to face whatever punishment I might receive.

I pull open the door, and freeze.

Eric is already in the room setting up a row of shooting targets. He notices my presence, and suddenly, I'm terrified. My brain unhelpfully informs me that it's an instinctual response that happens when a weaker animal suddenly finds itself in the presence of a stronger predator.

 _But I'm not weak_ , I remind myself.

So I force my limbs to loosen and walk further into the room. His steely eyes appraise me curiously, as a lion might observe a particularly stupid gazelle who willingly wandered straight into its claws. Not to be deterred, I stubbornly raise my head and meet his gaze head on. It's something I have been trained not to do in Abnegation as it might make someone uncomfortable, but I know that lowering my eyes at this juncture would only be perceived as a sign of weakness.

 _And I'm not weak_ , I remind myself again.

There is an undeniable sense that he might pounce at any moment and shred me to bits, but there is an equally powerful magnetism that draws me ever closer to him. My aching legs finally come to a staggering halt when I'm about six feet away from him – far too close for comfort, and yet still not as close as I want. I'm nearly breathless under the weight of Eric's stare, but I force my lungs to keep inhaling and exhaling in slow, even breaths. His ruthless eyes sear into mine, and it takes everything I have not to tremble.

 _I'm not afraid!_ My mind roars furiously. _I refuse to be afraid!_

 _Not anymore!_

My face must have given him some clue as to my inner turmoil, because he raises a single pierced eyebrow. And just like that, the tension in the room is broken, and I can breathe normally once more.

"You look like shit," is the first thing Eric says to me.

"I've been running."

"I know," he scowls, as if insulted that I didn't expect him to know that already. "You look like you're about to drop. So what the hell are you doing here?"

"To push myself until I do," I answer without hesitation.

Eric raises his eyebrow once more. The piercings glint sharply in the fluorescent lighting of the training room. "You're of no use to me dead."

"I'd rather be dead than weak."

This time, both of his eyebrows shoot up. "Is that so?" Eric asks doubtfully.

I nod, not trusting myself to say anything else. I've somehow piqued his interest – his eyes are intensely vicious, and I know that they're analyzing every move I make.

"Hmmmm," he drawls slowly, pacing around me in a manner that could only be described as predatory. "I guess I'll just have see for myself."

Eric suddenly turns away and prowls to the back of the room. His movements are lithe and sharp in their barely constrained lethality, and I watch curiously as he disappears into what looks like a supply closet. Soon he emerges cradling a giant orange punching bag to his chest as if it weighed nothing. My mouth goes dry as I observe the chiseled lines of his biceps and the slight pucker of his lips as he single-handedly moves what looks to be a several-hundred pound punching bag all the way over to where I'm standing.

Belatedly, I wonder if I should've offered to help him.

Once the bag settles, he turns around and stands next to me. And suddenly he's too close – way too close. It feels as if the air itself is vibrating with his all-consuming intensity.

"Well go on then," he demands, sharply gesturing towards the punching bag. "Show me what you've got."

It's a challenge. And I know that I can't waste such an amazing opportunity. This is my chance to show him what I'm made of. And although I've never punched anything before in my life, I have a basic grasp of the mechanics. The harder and faster I punch, the better.

So I ball up my fist and drive it forward, putting all my passion and determination into the movement. It strikes the bag, which I'm pleased to note wobbles a little bit.

But I'm not done yet. Not even close.

My other fist comes flying, my knuckles pounding into the rubber. And before I know what's happening, I'm punching the bag like a woman possessed.

 _Harder!_ I demand of myself. _Faster!_

Over and over I punch, each time doing my best to move the bag just a little bit more than the last time. I continue punching without any indication from Eric that I should stop, which tells me that he's still not satisfied. So I keep going, again and again, until sweat drips down my face and I begin to lose all sense of time.

 _It's still not enough!_

I cry out, the idea of pain nothing but a fuzzy memory as I hurl my fists against the bag, the rhythm of the smacks forming a steady staccato. Eric's presence eggs me on, and even though my knuckles start to bleed and the cut on my palm splits open once more, I do not stop.

 _FASTER!_

My mind buzzes into a stage of clarity that makes my veins hum with fire. Move the bag? I should be able to punch _through_ it! I redouble my efforts, uncaring that the bag is splattered with blood or that Eric is still behind me. Instead, all that matters is that I keep hitting it, over and over. The bag rocks back and forth now, and I gleefully continue to pummel it with every ounce of power I possess.

 _HARDER!_

The wet sounds of my punches echo through the room.

 **THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!**

Everything is a blur. Everything is gone. I'm no longer Beatrice. I'm no longer Tris.

I'm just a punch. And then another. And then another. And then another.

"Stop," a voice commands from behind me, and it's so unexpected I spin around, primed to attack.

Eric catches my bloodied fist as it goes flying towards him, and it is the electric feeling of his skin against mine that finally jolts me out of my frenzy. My chest heaves up and down, dangerously close to his, as my body desperately tries to resupply itself with fresh oxygen. His hand, which is still holding mine, is smeared with warm blood dripping from my palm and down onto the training mat below.

I am shocked. I never knew I was capable of that sort of brutality. Part of me feels sick, but the rest of me is...

Proud.

Eric releases my hand, his fingers stained red with my blood. He looks at me, really looks at me, and I can tell that I have surprised him. Stunned him, even. He shakes his head, as if tossing aside whatever thoughts he was thinking.

"Go to the infirmary and get yourself cleaned up," he commands, his tone all business. "If you hurry, you should be able to make it back before seven."

I nod my understanding, and turn around to leave. I don't expect praise because he doesn't seem to type to give any, and I haven't done anything but prove that I'm not as pathetic as he first thought. And I'm happy enough with that.

But then as I'm about to leave, he calls out to my retreating back, "Tris!"

I turn around, startled by his use of my new name.

"Good job," he states, giving me a small nod.

I pause, my entire body flushing with warmth at his approval, before I turn back around and flee through the door with an extra burst of speed and a large smile on my face.

He did, after all, tell me to hurry.

My legs still hurt, but I'm so giddy that I hardly feel them as I sprint down the hallway to the infirmary. I race by Will, Christina, and Al, who are heading in the opposite direction, probably to snag a quick breakfast before training.

"Tris, what are you… holy shit your hands!" Christina exclaims.

Even though they stop, I keep running forward without responding. I can talk to them later about what happened, but right now, I have to make it to the infirmary and get fixed up in time for training. So I continue down the hall, ignoring any other initiates that happen to pass by, including Peter, who sees me fly past him and calls out, "Look, the Stiff is running away!"

I'm running, alright. But not away. Never away.

A few moments later, I charge around the corner and burst through the door of the infirmary. A short woman in a lab coat, with bright pink hair and a septum piercing, eyeballs me critically.

"Sorry," I blurt out, realizing that it was hardly appropriate for me to come barreling into her infirmary like that. "But I need your help. I need to get my hands bandaged up before training starts at –"

"At seven, yes, I know," she interrupts. She glances at the clock, which displays that it is already 6:42am. Had I really been punching for that long?

"Well then, don't just stand there, sit down!" she commands briskly.

I quickly sit in a black chair covered with crisp white paper while she scurries around grabbing cloth, antiseptic, and bandages. She soaks the cloth with antiseptic before wiping down my hands. It stings, but everything hurts so much already that I can barely feel it.

"If you keep tearing that open, it's going to need stitches," she informs me, gesturing towards the cut on my palm. "So try not to go too crazy on the punching bag next time."

I wonder how she knows it was a punching bag, but then realize that she's likely seen similar injuries countless times in Dauntless. Indeed, she is a picture of perfect efficiency as she deftly wraps my hand into a bandage, tying it off with a small knot that she tucks underneath a loose flap. Next she grabs a handful of small and sticky bandage strips and delicately wraps them around each of my bloodied knuckles. I watch the clock, my anxiety growing as every minute ticks further to seven.

6:56…6:57…6:58…

"There!" she announces as the last of my knuckles is wrapped up.

I outright bolt from the chair, yelling out a quick 'Thank you!' behind me as I sprint through the door. I don't have the time now, but I'll be sure to thank her properly the next time I see her.

My legs strain as I careen down the hall, and I do my best to coax out every last ounce of strength they have left. The training room is just down the hall, through the corridor, and on the right. However, the corridor is long, and I know that there is a decent chance I might not make it in time.

 _No! I will make it!_

My arms pump furiously, and with a final burst of speed, I skid in front of the training room and open up the door.

"Cutting it a little close, aren't you initiate?" Four asks as everyone turns to look at me. The clock on the wall displays the time to be 6:59, and it ticks to 7:00 the moment after I walk through the door.

My eyes meet Christina's concerned gaze, and with a spark of amusement, I can't help but reply, "I like making an entrance."

She snickers, but tries to cover it up by turning it into a rather unconvincing cough.

"Don't do it again," Four responds, unimpressed.

I nod my understanding, and then make my way to stand next to Christina, Al, and Will. They look me over, curiosity clear in their eyes, but Four is beginning the lesson so they refocus their attention on him. I take a moment to look around, but I don't see any evidence of blood or the punching bag – in their place are a row of benches with handguns, and then on the other side of the room, a line of hanging targets.

I do, however, smell the sharp scent of cleaning fluid.

"Welcome to your first day of training. Today you're going to learn how to shoot a gun, and then after lunch, you're going to learn the basics of self defense. We're going to start off with some basic safety information - "

He is interrupted as the door to the classroom opens once more, revealing the increasingly familiar form of Eric. And even though no one but Four has been talking, a noticeable hush falls across the room.

"Yes, Eric?" Four asks tersely. I wonder if there is some sort of feud between them.

"Sorry I'm late," Eric grins, not sounding sorry at all. "I got held up with some Leadership stuff."

I notice that his hands are wet, as if he has just washed them off.

"Late? I didn't think you were going to be supervising this lesson?" Four asks pointedly.

Eric's eyes flicker to mine for just a second, and then he looks back to Four. It's such a small moment that I doubt anyone even notices. But I certainly do.

"I changed my mind."

Four huffs in frustration, but there is clearly nothing he can do about it. "Very well. Now then, as I was saying…"

Four then proceeds to give a brief lecture about gun safety that I make a token effort to listen to. Eric stands off to the side with his arms crossed, looking bored. I wonder about his motivations for being here. I'm fairly certain it has something to do with me, but I'm not nearly arrogant enough to think that I'm the only reason.

Eric's gaze darts towards mine, no doubt perceiving me watching him, and a line of shivers races down my spine. Christ, how could one person have such intense eyes?

"Everyone grab a bench!" Four instructs, drawing my attention once more. "First you'll learn how to take a gun apart, and then you'll put it back together. Once you master that, you can have a go at shooting."

I hastily claim a bench, choosing the one at the end, as far away from Eric as possible. I'm worried that I won't be any good with a gun, which will almost certainly garner his disdain. This way I'll hopefully have a little time to practice before he's upon me.

Once everyone claims a station, Four begins to dismantle his handgun, describing the process step by step. He points out which parts need to be oiled and cleaned to ensure maximum efficiency, and then reassembles the gun, talking us through the process. He does this once more, and my eyes are riveted on the motions as I commit each step to memory.

"Alright, now that you've seen how it's done, go ahead and try it yourselves. I don't expect you to get it on the first try, so I'll be walking around to help you. Once you can dissemble and reassemble your handgun in under two minutes, Eric will show you how to load it and shoot it. Everyone understand?"

Everyone nods and voices their agreement, but my eyes are glued to the gun. First you unlock the chamber, then you slide it off, then you…

"Okay, begin!'

My hands frantically attack the gun like a starving vulture to a carcass. My thoughts are focused on the task, despite a lingering intuition that I'm being observed. I have to master this, just like I have to master everything else – Eric would no doubt expect it of me, but more importantly, I also expect it of myself.

Still, it's harder than Four let on. My fingers tremble as I yank and pull and slide, the bandages around my knuckles making me fumble a few of the pieces. But soon, the gun is in pieces on the table, and I begin to put it back together as quickly as possible. It's a lot like putting together one of those block puzzles from Mid-level woodshop, the kind I was always really good at. And so while I end up having to guess the order of two of the pieces, I happen to choose correctly, and before I know it, I'm done.

"Well, well," croons a voice I recognize as Eric's from behind me. I duck my head down and allow my unkempt hair to fall around my face to hide my flush at the confirmation that Eric has in fact been watching me. "Not only are you the first jumper, but it appears you're also the first to put your gun together – and in a minute and a half, no less. Remind me, what were the results of your Aptitude Test?"

"Abnegation," I inform him, ducking further beneath my curtain of hair. I never was a good liar, and I know that if he sees my face it might give something away.

"Abnegation?" he scoffs with a dangerous tone of disbelief. "Are you sure you didn't get Erudite or Dauntless?"

I actually got all three, but my instincts are screaming at me to keep lying. "I'm sure. But I'm Dauntless now."

"That remains to be seen," he responds dryly, the threat of danger dissipating from his voice. "Dissemble your gun and reassemble it again. If you can do it in less than a minute, I'll show you how to shoot."

It's half the time that Four has given us, but I know better than to mention it. "Just tell me when to start," I say instead.

"Now!"

I jolt, and then lunge towards the gun. Strangely, it is less nerve-wracking now that I know for certain he's watching, rather than just wondering if he was. The tremble in my hands is gone, and I steadily pull apart the pieces one by one. The gauze on my knuckles still makes me a bit clumsy, but I manage to disassemble it far more quickly than last time. Reassembling goes just as smoothly, especially since I can remember the order of the pieces. With a final CLICK I set the gun down on table triumphantly.

"Forty six seconds," he whistles, actually sounding impressed. "You're a natural."

"It's not that hard once you know the steps," I mutter, even as my lips quirk into a smile at his praise.

"You'd be surprised," he sneers, pointing to the other initiates. I raise my head above the protective shelter of my hair and see that nobody has even come close to fully disassembling their gun, much less reassembling it. Most of the Erudite transfers are examining the pieces they've managed to dissemble with intense expressions of concentration, while the Candors huddle around Four as he walks them through it once more. Peter notices me staring at him and look back at me with confusion. Most likely he's curious as to why I'm watching him instead of messing with my own gun, and possibly wondering why Eric seems to be paying special attention to me.

I'm wondering the same thing myself. Just how successful was I this morning in getting his attention?

"Pathetic," Eric sneers. "Whatever, I'll let Four handle them – he seems to like that sort of thing. Let's see if you can shoot a gun as well as you can assemble one."

I wordlessly follow him as he leads me over to the targets. He chooses the one on the end and picks up the massive box of ammo resting on the ground in front of it.

"This is how you load a gun," he instructs simply, quickly popping out the cartridge of his own gun and loading the bullets into it one by one. "Using loose ammo takes a lot of time, so out in the field you'll have replacement clips that are already pre-loaded. But for now, go ahead and load yours up."

He hands me the box, and as I take it from him, our fingers touch just the slightest bit. A line of goosebumps instantly rises all the way from the tops of my fingers to my elbow, and I curse internally as notices it and smirks.

Flustered, I refocus my attentions back on the gun. It's harder to get the bullets into the cartridge than I first thought, and it takes me a few tries to figure out the angle to successfully push them through the slot. It nevertheless serves as a great excuse for me to try and ignore the wolf at my back, which I'm fairly certain is an exercise in futility when we're standing this close together – every inch of me seems unnaturally attuned to his presence.

With one final push, the clip is full, and I look up at Eric expectantly, doing my best to ignore the thrill of meeting his cold grey stare.

"Sloppy. Do it again."

His words cut deeper than they should, especially since he's correct. It was sloppy. I would have to do better.

"How do I empty the clip?" I ask evenly, keeping any evidence of my emotions well-hidden from my tone and face.

He smirks again, and then in the blink of an eye raises his own gun and fires it with a loud **BANG** , making me flinch. He then fires more shots in rapid succession, all of which cluster around the small red circle in the very center of the target. I quickly get over my shock and start cataloguing his stance, how he holds the gun, and the way both hands raise the gun to his line of sight. By the time he's done, the center circle is nearly obliterated.

This man is deadly.

"That's how you empty a clip," he states rather smugly. "You can shoot yours once you refill mine."

He pushes his gun into my empty hand and then grabs my training gun from the other, making a point to not touch me at all.

"Now!" Eric commands sharply. His mercurial mood has shifted once more, and it's clear that the only acceptable response is to complete my task. So I get to work. The bullets make their way one after another into the cartridge, and I guess the second time's the charm, because soon the clip is full once more.

"Better," he allows, grabbing his gun and handing me back my training gun. "Go ahead and hold it like you're about to shoot."

I obediently raise the gun and aim it at a fresh target, doing my best to mirror the grip and stance he'd used earlier.

"Not bad," he admits. "Raise your arm here."

He nestles closer, his hand tapping against the underside of my arm, eliciting a veritable explosion of goosebumps.

"Cold, initiate?" he chuckles darkly. I nearly die of mortification, especially since I can tell that the sadistic part of him is enjoying this. "Now lower your elbow here, and straighten your legs," he instructs, nudging me with his hand and knee simultaneously. An unfamiliar warmth rushes through my abdomen as his knee grazes my inner thigh, and I wonder if he's close enough to hear the stutter in my heart.

"Very good," he murmurs enticingly. "Now finally, release the safety." His hand wraps around my own, his finger guiding mine to tap against a latch and release a lever. My hand practically hums where he's touching me, and the cut in my palm zings with a deep and satisfying ache. "And now you shoot."

He backs away, and takes all of the air from my lungs with him, expelled in a giant _whoosh_ by the vacuum left in his absence. I feel dazed, almost woozy, and there's a moment of panic as I wonder how in the world I'm supposed to shoot a gun when I can hardly keep my knees from collapsing.

"Look down the sights and line up the two bars to the spot you want to shoot. Keep your grip relaxed, but firm. If you clench too tightly then you'll yank the gun when you pull the trigger, and miss."

I latch onto his voice like a lifeline, and it serves to bring me back to my present task. I have to shoot a gun. And I'm under no illusions – Eric's intoxicating presence will instantly turn poisonous if I prove inadequate at the task. Such extreme motivation for success, such extreme punishment for failure – It's a knife's edge that slices deeper the longer I remain in the middle. My palm twinges in remembrance of the commitment I'd made at the when I sliced it open for Dauntless.

It was now or never.

Pulse pounding, hands sweaty, neck prickling under the weight of his expectant stare – I look down the sights and pull the trigger.

 **BANG!**

The noise is loud and startling, but as I reflexively jump, the tension that has been building into a steady crescendo suddenly bleeds out of me in a giant flood.

It's okay. Everything is okay. I have a gun. I have control. All I have to do is breathe. Breathe, and keep shooting.

My first shot goes wide, and barely nicks the outer ring of the target. But I quickly line the target back into my sights and pull the trigger again. And again. And again. The **BANGS** echo through the training room, but I focus only on the target, glaring at the red ring in the center with an acute sense of tunnel-vision. My bullets creep closer and closer to the bull's-eye with each shot, until finally, a bullet pierces the outermost edge of the center ring. I pull the trigger again, but all I get is a weak CLICK. The gun is empty.

"Well, at least you hit the center once," critiques Eric. From his tone, I gather that I've done better than I should have, but not quite as well as he was hoping for.

"I'm not done," I declare, popping open the cartridge and shoving more bullets into it.

"No shit," he snaps, his cold eyes gleaming with appraisal. "You're not done until you hit the center circle every time."

It's a hefty challenge. This is the first time I've ever shot a gun, and now he expects me to get all bull's-eyes?

 _Yes. Yes he does._

I've known him for less than a day, but I can already tell that Eric is the type of person who demands nothing less than perfection. He won't be satisfied until I've been pushed to my absolute limits. In this case, shooting is a test of precision rather than brute strength, and therefore requires a calm and collected mind. It requires _practice_. And so I empty another clip. And then another. And then countless more. Every so often Eric barks out fresh instructions, and I correct myself accordingly. After a significant amount of time has passed, about half of my bullets are hitting the center, while the rest linger stubbornly in the next two circles.

Eric eventually leaves me to my own devices, as both Will and Peter have finally managed to assemble their guns. He stalks over to assist them while I focus on my shooting. And although he hasn't said anything, I somehow know that he's not going to return until the end of the lesson. And I also know that if I haven't managed to perfect my shooting by that time, then he'll judge me to be a failure.

So I get to work. I keep shooting, making small modifications to the angle of my sights and the intensity of my grip. Quite a while goes by in this manner, until eventually, all of the other initiates have switched from assembling to shooting. Four likewise switches his role, and begins walking around changing out the targets and dropping off more ammo. He offers the occasional pointer to those who need it, but doesn't say a single word to me.

More time goes by, and the morning gradually drifts closer to noon. The other initiates take breaks every so often to chat and drink water, but I know that indulging in such a luxury before I complete my task will only earn me Eric's ire. Indeed, interacting with the other initiates has put him in a piss-poor mood already. He violently criticizes the other initiates, particularly Al, who keeps flinching every time his gun goes off. But like Four, he ignores me altogether. So I keep shooting, silently rejoicing each time I manage to get another bullet into the center ring.

Unfortunately, my persistence has a price. My arms are week from holding the solid metal gun aloft for so long, and my hands are cramping from the continuous shooting. I risk pausing for a moment to loosen my muscles and peek at how Peter is doing next to me, as he also seems to have escaped Eric's anger for the most part. His form is decent, and most of his shots cluster around the inner three rings, but he only hits the bull's-eye once or twice for every clip. I am the opposite – all of my shots now hit the center target except for one or two. As I continue to observe him, I take note of his latent strength and intense focus, and begin to understand why he left Candor for Dauntless. I also begrudgingly admit to myself that Peter is somewhat handsome, in a rather average way.

"Slacking off, are you?"

It's Eric. Dammit, how can someone with such a weighty presence sneak up on me so easily?

"I wasn't slacking," I grumble, upset that the one time I stopped he just so happened to show up.

"That's not what it looked like. It looked like you were taking a break. Which means you're either too weak to keep shooting, or you're good enough to stop. So which is it?" Eric demands in a voice that brooks no argument. Even furious as he is, my skin shamefully prickles with latent static charge.

There is no way that I'm going to say I'm weak, which leaves me with one other option. "I'm good enough."

Eric stares at me long and hard.

"Attention everyone!" Four suddenly calls out, making Eric's eyes snap away from me like lightning. "You all did well today. Some of you still don't have the hang of it, but you'll get better the more we practice. For now, go get some lunch, and be back here by 12:30pm sharp. Dismissed."

At Four's dismissal, everyone puts down their guns and starts making their way out of the room. Christina looks at me questioningly, but I motion for her to go ahead to lunch without me. Eric still hasn't tested me yet, and somehow I doubt that he'll put it off just because the lesson is technically over.

While everyone leaves, Four goes to the back storage closet and emerges with a broom to start sweeping up the shells littering the ground. He looks up, and seems surprised to see that Eric and I are still standing there.

"Aren't you heading to lunch?" Four inquires.

"We have something to do," Eric states with his standard cocksure swagger. "So don't mind us, you go on and play housemaid. We won't bother you."

Four flushes at the insult, and visibly bites his tongue to hold back an unpleasant retort. Instead he settles for a prickly, "Fine. Do whatever you want. You always have."

"Only because nobody could ever stop me," Eric gloats.

"Oh really?" Four suddenly challenges. "Because that's not how I remember it."

There is a moment of tense silence.

"What did you just say?" Eric demands. Dark waves of anger emanate from his form, which has puffed up in response to Four's needling.

Four throws the broom to the ground with a loud clatter, his eyes flashing rebelliously. "Nothing. Now that I think about it, I think I'll go get some lunch myself. Your little redemption project can sweep up the shells. But if she doesn't want to, I suppose you can be the one to clean them up. I know you have plenty of experience being _second choice_."

And with that, Four spins around and stomps out of the room. I stand paralyzed, watching his retreating back.

 _What the heck did I just witness?_

I cautiously glance at Eric, who is literally trembling with rage. Somehow, Four has gotten to him, and he looks like he wants to tear someone apart with his bare hands. The sick thing is, part of me is excited by the extreme violence simmering beneath his skin. What would it feel like if he turned his sights towards me with that much dark intent?

 _Maybe I should move out of arms-reach, just in case?_

My muscles tense to do just that, but Eric picks up on my intention to move away and his teeth clench in response. I cease all movement, unwilling to incur his wrath. The room is deathly silent while I wait for some clue as to what he wants me to do.

"Four is a dead man," Eric suddenly declares into the silence. From anyone else it would sound arrogant and melodramatic, but he states it like a cold and certain fact.

And I believe him.

"Better make it look like an accident," I offer in a weak attempt to cut the tension and inject some much-needed levity into the situation.

"Of course," he agrees seriously.

I gulp.

"Don't worry, nobody will suspect you had anything to do with it," he soothes, completely misreading the cause of my concern. He thinks I'm nervous because I might somehow be implicated, rather than the fact that he's casually planning a murder like someone might discuss the weather. But then again, it's not like I know anything about Dauntless politics. Maybe killing off rivals is a common thing here?

"Good to know," I state, doing an admirable job of disguising my unease at somehow being involved in something so serious. "But hey, forget about Four, he's a lousy trainer anyways. You've already taught me way more than he could – I just hope I'm worth your time."

"That still remains to be seen," he barks, reverting back to his persona of a demanding instructor. "I haven't forgotten your fuck up from earlier."

I conceal my sigh of relief that my attempt to shift the conversation actually worked. We're back to discussing my faults rather than how best to kill a man.

"I'm sorry," I intone. "It won't happen again."

"Don't apologize! Either you fail or you don't. I don't give a fuck if you feel bad about it or not."

"Yes, Sir," I acknowledge.

"Oh, so now it's ' _Sir_ ' is it?" he sneers contemptuously. "Alright then _initiate_ , I think we've pussyfooted around long enough. Go ahead and show me exactly how _worthy_ you are. Or not."

I take a deep breath. Somehow, I have to forget about the drama with Four. At least temporarily. It's time to shoot, and I have to hit the center circle twenty times in order to pass Eric's test. His judgement hangs above me like a spiked pendulum, and I have no idea what he might do to me if I fail. His anger makes him violently unpredictable – murderous, as I now know. But I refuse to falter the moment it matters the most. I've spent all morning practicing, and now it all comes down to one final clip.

And I will succeed yet again. Failure isn't an option.

I release my breath in a long exhale, and then raise my gun back into my line of sight.

 **BANG!** goes the first shot, straight into the middle. One down, nineteen more to go.

 **BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!**

One after another I shoot, my world narrowed down to the sight at the tip of my gun and the target hanging thirty feet in front of me.

 **BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!**

I can't deny the rush of power I feel as each bullet penetrates cleanly into the center ring. In one day, I've transformed from an Abnegation Stiff whose never held a gun, into a Dauntless warrior who can put a bullet anywhere she wants.

 **BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!**

 _FUCK!_

The rare mental expletive surges through my mind as I realize what I've done. In my confidence, one of the bullets has nicked the edge of the second circle. The hole is still almost completely within the center, but I know that such a slip is unacceptable.

Furious, I fire off the final four shots. **BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!**

They all sail smoothly into the very center, almost on top of each other, but it isn't enough. Nothing could ever be enough to erase that tiny sliver protruding damningly into the second circle.

There is a moment of tense silence.

"So close, yet so far."

I'm so angry and upset that my gut churns with suppressed bile.

 _Dammit! FUCK! I was so close!_

"I guess this just shows that you're not ready to play with the big dogs," he states, his tone laced with scornful disappointment.

I'm so enraged that I violently hiss, and it isn't until he starts laughing that I realize I've hissed out loud.

"Down kitty!" he jeers, reaching down to mockingly stroke my mass of frizzy hair. A surge of warmth floods through my veins at the sensation, manifesting itself into a explosive blush that sets my checks aflame. His fingernails scratch against my scalp, and it feels so indescribably good that I mindlessly lean into his hand to get more of that sizzling heat.

His hand suddenly recoils. His stormy eyes look stricken. There is a perverse thrill of victory at being able to surprise him, even with something this embarrassing.

"Woof," I joke, too frazzled to think of anything else to say.

His grey eyes darken with violent emotion, and our gazes stay locked as we share a silent conversation for which I only understand half the words.

"You _failed_ ," he hisses like a livid snake. "Now go grab the broom."

I prefer my head remained attached to my shoulders, so I hastily do just that. The next few minutes pass by in tense silence as I obey his implied command to sweep up the shells, keeping my gaze fixed on the ground. My failure tastes of ashes that settle into my stomach like cement. I hate it. I hate every second of every sweep, as the shells clatter over the ground and into the large metal bucket Four had used earlier.

Against my will, my eyes flit upwards to observe Eric. He is taking down the targets, and as luck would have it, he is currently taking down my own. His fingers run over it in silent contemplation.

One sliver. That was the difference between failure and success. Would he even still bother trying to teach me?

I look back down, furious with myself. Why couldn't I have done better?

More time passes, and as I chase down errant shells with the broom, Eric starts moving the benches into a side room and replacing them with orange punching bags identical to the one I had used earlier. We continue to work in uncomfortable silence until the shells are all swept up and the room is ready for the afternoon lesson.

Almost as if on cue, Four walks back into the room, followed by the other initiates. I quickly look away from him, not quite sure how to handle interacting with someone who's murder I had discussed minutes earlier. The initiates all head towards me, no doubt assuming that since I'm already there, they ought to stand where I am. They smell faintly of bacon, and my stomach grumbles as I realize that I've missed lunch completely.

"Where were you?" Christina whispers once she gets close. "We didn't see you at lunch."

"Eric and Four wanted to know what happened to my hands," I invent wildly, somewhat impressed by my quick improvisation.

"And?" she asks expectantly.

"And nothing. I told them that I fell running down the path, and Eric made me do sit-ups as punishment."

"What an asshole," she mutters. "But is that true about your hands? You fell?

"He's not an asshole," I defend vehemently, earning a confused look. I'm saved from having to answer her question about my hands as Four chooses that moment to start the lesson.

"File in!" Four greets. "And gather 'round. Today you're going to learn how to handle yourself in a fight."

Four and Eric stand side by side at the front of the room, ostensibly a united front, but there is a palpable animosity simmering between them that Eric makes no attempt to hide.

"We're going to start off with a few simple moves, and I'll be teaching you how to protect – "

Four goes on to explain the basic tenants of defense training, which boil down to hurting the other person while trying not to get hurt yourself. My estimation of Four increases a notch as he manages to teach the lesson unfazed, even with Eric glaring daggers at his back. I'm finding it difficult to ignore Eric myself, and my eyes keep drifting to his heavily-muscled form far more often than they should.

Suddenly, Four snaps at everyone to pay close attention – we will be fighting each other tomorrow, and our performance will factor into our rankings for Stage 1. And although Four directs the comment to the room in general, his gaze lingers particularly long on me.

After that, I make sure to keep my eyes from wandering.

Four starts describing some actual moves, demonstrating them step-by-step, first in open air, and then against one of the punching bags. "As you can see, this form maximizes your defense while still allowing for powerful offensive strikes from your elbows and knees. Now everybody go and pick a bag to practice on."

I immediately turn and head to the closest bag, but it seems I'm the only one with a semi-decent reaction time, as everybody else just stands around looking at each other.

"What, is the Stiff the only one who can follow directions? Go find a bag!" Eric shouts angrily.

I'm upset that he uses that nickname, as it demonstrates exactly how far I've fallen out of his favor. He had called me Tris earlier because I had earned it. But now I was back to being the Stiff.

Once everyone gets settled around a bag, I get started on learning the forms. At first my moves are clunky and uncoordinated – I have absolutely zero fighting experience, and it shows. But as I slow down and get used to the flow of one move into another, the motions become smoother and more precise. I picture Four's demonstrations in my mind, and fiercely concentrate on mimicking his movements as exactly as possible. I am so focused on imprinting the technicalities of the movements into my muscle memory that I don't realize there isn't nearly enough speed or power behind the strikes as there should be. I also don't realize that Eric is behind me until he scoffs in derision.

"What a shame. I really thought you were better than this."

I seethe as red hot fury surges through me. _I can't disappoint him! Not again!_

Like flicking a switch, I suddenly start wailing on the bag. My elbows and knees go flying, and the moves click together like clockwork. Still, the bag does not move as much as it had earlier, and it fills me with unadulterated rage. What, did I think I could impress him once and then everything afterwards would be a cakewalk?

Did I think being strong was a one-time thing?

I hit harder, lashing out in desperation.

 _I can't let him think I'm weak! I can't!_

"Tighten your abs! Use your core!" Eric barks, and my entire abdomen obediently tenses. Suddenly I can feel my elbow jab originate from deep within my stomach, and my entire body stretches like a bowstring as my elbow releases to whip against the bag. The bag rocks back and forth from the hit, and I waste no time in hitting it again and again, each time trying to pull even more strength from my core.

An adrenaline high creeps up on me without warning. My knees and elbows keep jabbing in furious rhythm, and once again, my perception starts to change. The monotony, the daily routines, the stagnant societal constructs – they're gone. I'm nothing but a living, breathing organism, a collection of organs and systems pumping together to form something greater. Something that can laugh, that can breath, that can _feel_.

Everything starts to fade away. Four's alarmed looks, Christina's concerned glances, Eric's presence behind me – they're all gone. Everything is released onto the bag, where it all rushes out in a maelstrom of knee jabs and elbow thrusts. The moves now come to me so instinctively that I no longer have to think about them. Everything is vivid and simple, and every movement makes me grateful to be alive.

There is a heady sense of pleasure to this state of _being_ that I am only just beginning to explore and understand. It is so seductive that even when my elbows and knees split open to leak blood from tiny cracks in my skin, I only notice so far as to register the presence of blood on the bag before continuing my assault.

"Initiate, stop!"

"Don't stop her, not yet."

"Are you crazy? She's bleeding! Initiate, stop right now! Initiate!"

Someone grabs my arm as I'm about to throw another jab, and I snarl before yanking it out of their grasp.

 _Who would dare…?!_

A different hand, an electric one, lightly takes hold of my elbow, and suddenly the haze clears. It only takes me a second to regain my senses.

Four is looking at me like I've gone insane, as is everyone else in the training room. A few, including Christina and Al, even look afraid. But not Eric. He releases my elbow, and although his face reveals nothing, I can feel his anger simmering like he might decide to murder Four right here and now, witnesses be damned.

I share in his anger. Why would Four try to limit me? Why does he hate me so much?

"Go to the infirmary," Four commands with something akin to disgust. "I would send someone to go with you, but I'm not going to waste anyone else's time on your account."

"No," Eric states, his voice more menacing and commanding than Four's could ever be. "You're not punishing her for doing the right thing."

"The _right thing_?" Four mimics incredulously. "I told them to practice the forms, not beat themselves bloody against the punching bags!"

"Oh, so you want to hold them back? You want to protect them?" Eric sneers contemptuously.

The temperature in the room seems to drop a few degrees as the two men stare each other down.

"You just don't understand," Eric mutters darkly. "You've never understood what it takes to be great."

"If that's your idea of _greatness_ then I want no part of it!" Four scowls back.

"Careful, Four," Eric warns with a cruel gleam in his eyes. "What you're saying is dangerously close to treason. In fact, it's not very Dauntless of you at all."

Four's anger melts away as if Eric had poured a bucket of ice water over his head. He takes a few deep breaths, and the temperature of the room seems to return to normal.

"Apologies," Four huffs. "Considering our history, I'm sure you understand why I'm more protective of the transfer initiates."

"Don't be. You only do them a disservice," Eric responds, his tone matter-of-fact. There is a moment of silence until Eric turns to me and asks, "Tris? Do _you_ think you need to go to the infirmary?"

I am surprised he is addressing me, and even more surprised that he uses my name. Have I redeemed myself from earlier? It's hard to tell with Eric. But I already know the correct answer to his question. The cracks in my elbows and knees are hardly bigger than spider silk, and the small drops of blood that managed to ooze out have long since dried. Going to the infirmary like Four demanded would be nothing short of betrayal.

"I'm fine. I just want to get on with the lesson."

Eric lets out a rumble of sarcastic laughter. "You see Four? She's fine. What's more concerning is that your pathetic sympathy is affecting the way you train the transfer initiates. I'm going to check in with Lauren to make sure she's not encouraging the same _weakness_ that you are, and then I'm going to have a little chat with Max. You've proven yourself incapable of training the initiates, so I think I might volunteer to take over – I hope you don't mind."

He turns to leave, but before he exits, he turns around. "Oh, and Four? You have a job to do. For now. So fucking do it."

He doesn't say it, but we all hear it.

 _Or else_.

And on that note, Eric exits the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

Almost in unison, everyone swivels to stare at me. The lingering silence is damning.

"What the hell, Tris?" Christina is the first to ask. My first instinct is to shrink back into myself and apologize, but I ruthlessly squash it down. I'm not the one at fault here.

"What the hell, Christina?" I parrot back. My frustration is obvious. What right does she have to be angry at me? Did she expect me to disappoint _Eric_ , just to make her feel better?

She fumes for a bit, but the combination of Will placing a restraining hand on her shoulder and Four yelling "Enough!" effectively puts an end to the discussion. Everyone shuffles and refocuses their attention back on Four as he restarts the lesson.

Four once again manages to maintain his ironclad composure, and continues teaching us the various fighting styles. Some are completely offensive, some are completely defensive, and some have a healthy mixture of both. But instead of making us practice on the punching bags, Four calls up people individually to help demonstrate the different styles, as well as the advantages and disadvantages of both. He conspicuously does not choose me to help demonstrate, and I have to swallow my anger at the injustice of it. Everyone else gets at least two tries to practice one-on-one with different forms that Four seems to think will match their fighting styles, and it's a heavy advantage that I'm extremely upset to be missing out on. By the time Four releases us for the day, I'm surprised steam isn't leaking from my ears.

Christina shoves past me as I walk out the door, and Will follows close behind her. Al gives me an apologetic look before scurrying after them. I scowl at their retreating forms. If Christina expects an apology, then she can go suck it.

I don't owe her anything.

I stomp down the hallway, debating whether to head to dinner now or wait until the cafeteria is more empty, when a hand clasps my shoulder and I whirl around ready to strike.

"Easy there Stiff!" Peter laughs, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I just wanna talk."

I level him with my best glare. "Don't call me that. My name is Tris."

"Yeah, whatever, and my name is Peter Pan," he scowls. "Look Stiff, everyone has a nickname that they don't like. Just suck it up and deal with it. Because if people know it bothers you, they'll just keep using it to piss you off."

I frown, about to give him some sort of sharp retort, but the words fade from my lips. Like it or not, he has a point.

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask suspiciously. "Actually, better question – why are you even talking to me?"

He sighs, and runs his fingers through his plain brown hair. "Despite what you might think, I'm actually kinda smart. And I know a threat when I see one."

I snort. "You think I'm a threat?"

"Of course I do. You're different than the others," he explains in a low voice, leaning towards me conspiratorially. "They don't understand what it means to be Dauntless. None of them do. They think this is all some sort of game. 'Oh, let's all play dress up and run around getting tattoos!' But you and me? We both realize what's at stake. You want to be here so bad that you _bled_ for it – and you loved every fucking minute. Someone like that is someone I don't want as an enemy."

"What's your point?" I ask, unnerved at his assessment and trying to figure out his angle. His body has drifted too close to mine, and I pull away as casually as I can. If he's trying to make me uncomfortable then I won't give him the satisfaction of showing it.

"Are your really that dense?" he blurts out. "Jesus, you must have been the stiffest of the Stiffs if you can't realize when someone's trying to make friends with you."

I'm thrown off balance by such a candid statement. I suppose it's to be expected from a Candor transfer, but still… to claim he wants to be friends with me, after spending all of yesterday antagonizing me, is more than a little strange. Unfortunately, I've never had any friends – only friendly acquaintances who tolerated my presence because it would've been selfish not to. So I don't really know what's considered normal, as far as friendships go.

I look at him, considering. I remember what he said on the train, and how I had agreed with him, even though everyone else seemed to think he was being an asshole. My mind can't help but compare him to Eric. They have the same edge of cruelty, though while Eric is a finely honed blade, Peter is barely just a butter knife. Like Eric, perhaps criticizing someone is Peter's method of motivation – other than a few jeers and taunts, he has yet to say or do anything truly malicious against me.

Not yet, anyway.

Allying with him will unquestionably alienate me from Christina, Will, and Al. But if I want to rise to the top, who do I really want to associate myself with? People who give me fearful glances and try to make me question everything I do? Or Peter, whose presence has done nothing but push me to do better?

Well when I put it like that…

"Fine," I grit out, wondering whether I'm making the right decision. "We can be friends. But I want something else."

"So do I," he grins, his eyes glittering with some hidden purpose. I don't know what he means, but I decide to continue anyway.

"I want you to teach me how to fight."

Peter's eyes widen for a second, and then he laughs. "You've got a one-track mind, you know that right? What makes you think I even know how to fight? And besides, I don't see any reason why I should put my neck on the line for you."

"Don't lie to me," I snap. "You've already admitted it. You and me? We'll both do whatever it takes to make the cut. I need someone who knows what they're doing, and somehow, I doubt you got those kinds of muscles by reading law books. If we spar together it'll help me catch up, and it'll give you an extra edge to help you stay on top."

"Four said we're not supposed to fight outside of training," he points out.

"He said we're not supposed to get _hurt_ ," I grin. "And besides, I thought you said you were smart. Didn't you hear Eric? Four might not be our trainer for much longer."

"Yeah, but Eric is like a million times scarier. If he doesn't want us to fight, he would make our lives a living hell if he found out."

"Then we'll just have to make sure neither of them find out," I conclude. But it's a lie. Eric will know, no matter how hard we try to hide it. But I'm almost certain that he would praise our initiative rather than punish us.

Peter thinks for a moment, and then finally nods. "Alright Stiff, you've got yourself a deal. I'll fight with you. But if we ever get caught, I'm gonna tell them it was your idea."

"I would expect nothing less," I allow. "But there's no deal yet – first, what's your condition?"

His eyes regain their twinkling sparkle. "Well, I'm a realistic guy, so how about you just eat dinner with me every day?"

There's a moment of awkward silence where we both size each other up. Ultimately, I give him a brisk nod. "Deal."

"Good choice," Peter chuckles. "Well c'mon then, we look stupid just standing here. Let's go get some food."

And so we do.

We walk down the hall and onto the bridge, where I instinctively start jogging. The adrenaline from earlier has mostly faded, so the descent is just as painful as it was this morning. Peter curses behind me and then runs to catch up, stumbling over a few of the loose rocks. His presence makes me stop at the cafeteria, which is probably for the best, considering the steady rumbling in my stomach.

"Jesus, Stiff," Peter pants, bracing his hands against my shoulders while he bends his head to breathe above my chest. "You're fucking hardcore."

"It's not that hard of a run," I scoff, shaking off his hands and pulling back.

Peter stands back up with a shit-eating grin and not a trace of exhaustion. He loops an arm around my shoulders and walks us to the dinner line. "Can't blame a guy for trying. You've got a great pair of tits by the way. Oh cool, they have hotdogs!"

I duck under and away from his arm, smacking him against his chest. "You better knock it off or else-!"

"Chill, Stiff," he chuckles, batting away my hands. "I'm just being friendly."

"Well don't," I grumble, as we reach the food trays.

"But I thought we were _friends_."

"True. But it might be hard to stay friends once I cut off your hands," I muse viciously.

"Oh trust me, you don't want to do that. My hands are _very_ talented – almost as talented as my tongue," he winks.

I scowl as we finally get to the bin of hotdogs. I lift one up to my mouth, maintaining eye contact with Peter, before violently chomping into it. He winces at the action.

"Mmm, delicious," I gloat over the mouthful of hotdog. I've never even kissed a boy, much less done _that_ , but I know enough to use the idea for intimidation.

"Y-yeah," he stutters, looking away uncomfortably. I take the moment to grab two more hotdogs and some water.

"Shall we sit down?" I ask innocently. I look around, and see that most of the tables are full. I spot Christina, who glares at me with a disgusted expression before turning back to her conversation with Will and Al.

Guess we won't be sitting there.

"Let's go sit with Drew and Molly," Peter suggests, and I shrug and follow him. He leads us over to a table seating the caramel-skinned boy with slick black hair, and the redhead girl who had been very unimpressive yesterday with her outbursts.

"Drew, Molly, this is Tris," Peter introduces us.

"What's she doing here?" demands Molly, looking at me with such a condescending expression that I have to repress the urge to punch it off her face.

"Eating lunch, obviously," I drawl like she's particularly stupid, plopping my tray down on the table.

"She's with me," Peter states like it's the end of the discussion. He sits down next to me and gives me a nod.

"Whatever," Molly sneers, before sniffing and turning her head back to Drew. Drew gives me an appraising look, before allowing Molly to draw him back into their earlier conversation. He doesn't say anything to me, but that already tells me what I need to know – he's withholding judgment until further notice.

"Some friends you got," I mutter to Peter under my breath.

"They're not friends, Stiff," Peter mutters back. "I keep Molly around because her stupidity makes me look good, and Drew because he'll do whatever I say – he's never had a single original thought in his life."

"That's kind of messed up," I inform him between mouthfuls of food.

"Maybe," he admits. "But don't get all Abnegation on me, it's not like they're some poor victims of manipulation. They don't like me either – they just hang out with me because I'm the strongest one here."

I can't ignore that our own situation is nearly identical, so I offer him a grim smile. "Fair enough."

The rest of dinner consists mostly of small talk and Peter's one-sided attempts at flirtation. I know it can't be genuine interest – I'm hardly the most attractive or pleasant person here, and I never had any sort of male attention in Abnegation. I assume that he's just trying to make me uncomfortable, and so I remain mostly unresponsive until we get up to put away our trays, far out of earshot of Drew and Molly.

"So I was wondering if you have any ideas about where and when we could meet up."

"Awww, I'm still here and you're already missing me!" Peter chirps sarcastically. "Don't worry Stiff, I'll find us a place where we can _hang out._ "

He says the words with such heavy innuendo that I don't even try to hide my scowl. "Fine. Just make sure it's private."

Peter snickers, and casually flings his arm around my shoulders once more. "Oh don't worry. I'll make sure nobody will be there to interrupt us."

I can't help it. Truly, I can't. At his unwelcome intrusion into my personal space, my elbow lifts up and jabs him straight in the stomach.

"Ouuwww!" he yells, doubling over. His rather high-pitched exclamation isn't the loudest noise in the bustling cafeteria, but it still draws the attention of a few people.

A few people, and Eric.

And Eric looks… absolutely livid.

He's glaring at Peter from all the way across the room, his eyes like twin daggers seeking to dissect his prey. He turns to me, and his stare is so intense that I can't hold it for more than a few seconds before looking away.

What was he so mad about? How did he even hear Peter through the din of noise?

 _Has he once again been watching me?_

The last thought is the most chilling, but even as a still-winded Peter roughly grabs me and marches us out of the cafeteria, I can't deny the shiver of pleasure that snakes its way down my spine. Eric was watching me. I should be scared, but all I can feel is a nerve-tingling satisfaction.

"What the actual fuck," Peter wheezes once we get to the path. "That hurt like a motherfucker!"

"Shut up!" I snap. "It wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been acting like such a jackass!"

He looks at me like I'm being exceptionally dense. "Tris. We need an excuse to sneak away and spend a few hours together in complete privacy, after which we'll come back hot and sweaty. Just what exactly did you expect us to use for a cover story?"

There's a spark of understanding, and then I nearly slam my face against the stone wall of the path. He's being so over-the top with his flirting because he wants us to pretend to be an _item_.

"I just wanted to learn how to fight!" I protest.

"Well here we are. Fighting. Welcome to the world of dating."

I groan with exasperation. Once again, I've landed myself in a situation that is way above my head. The sad thing is, the idea of dating someone terrifies me more than knowing about Four's soon-to-be 'accident.'

"Isn't there any other way? Like, _any_ other way?"

"Thanks Stiff, you sure know how to make a guy feel good about himself," he mutters crossly. "But no, not that I can think of."

My mind swirls chaotically as I consider the possible ramifications of pretending to be Peter's girlfriend. Other than my personal awkwardness and pissing off Christina, there really aren't any obvious drawbacks. But even still, I can't stop from wondering what a certain Dauntless Leader might think of the whole thing. Of course, it's stupid of me to even consider it.

But I consider it nonetheless.

It is only once I realize that I can tell Eric the truth about the cover story that I finally make up my mind.

"Fine," I state. "I guess you're right. But that doesn't mean I have to like it."

"And again with the ego bruising. You're on a roll today Stiff," Peter grins. "But uhh… hey, don't take this the wrong way or anything, but you should probably get some shampoo today. And some soap, while your at it. Maybe even some deodorant."

"Are you trying to tell me that I smell bad?"

"No Stiff, I'm saying that you smell worse than my grandpa's left armpit. Go be a girl for a little bit, and I'll scope out some places where we can fight. We'll meet up again tomorrow during dinner, and by then I'll have found somewhere that we can go."

"Fine," I grimace. "But between the two of us, I think I have the more difficult job."

He laughs and shakes his head. "Christ Stiff, you really are a riot. I'll see you tomorrow, so try not to bite any of the shopkeepers, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," I wave him off. "See you tomorrow. Jackass."

"Love you too honey bunches."

And with that he walks off, leaving me alone in one of the hallways branching off the path. Once he's gone, I surreptitiously sniff under my arm. Okay, so maybe I did smell a little. Urgh. I suppose that's what I get for exercising my butt off for two days without any sort of cleaning product.

Seeing no need to linger, I start jogging back up the path. The pain that courses through my legs is almost comforting in its familiarity, and it allows me to put some things into some much-needed perspective. Like it or not, I need Peter. An hour or two of extra fighting practice every day will benefit me to the extreme, and is worth whatever nonsense I have to put up with to get it.

Still… soap?

I scowl, and stop jogging as I pass by a store that positively reeks of flowers and fruity perfume. This place is as good as any. I walk through the girlishly decorated door, and just barely manage to stop myself from darting back out.

Why was everything so _pink_?

"Oh, it's you!" greets an absolutely gorgeous blonde woman who looks to be in her twenties, and whom I'm quite certain I've never met before.

"Do I know you?"

"Not really," she laughs, revealing a flashy set of pearly white teeth. "But I was there on the balcony – you're the first jumper. My name is Natasha."

"Nice to meet you," I greet her. "I'm Tris."

Her wide cerulean eyes sparkle with delight. "You're Tris? _The_ Tris? Oh, it all makes so much sense now!"

"What makes sense?"

"Oh nothing," she grins. "It's just that Eric mentioned you yesterday."

"Eric? You're friends with Eric?" I ask incredulously. Somehow, I never imagined Eric having friends. And I certainly never imagined that he'd talk to them about me.

"In a sense," she trills coyly. "And don't worry, he actually said that you _weren't_ a complete waste of space."

"Thanks. I think."

"No problem sweetheart. So what brings you here to my little shop?"

"Erm, I need…stuff?" I attempt, gesturing broadly to the rows upon rows of products sitting on the shelves.

"Oh dear, I forgot!" she gasps. "You were wearing grey when you jumped, weren't you? An Abnegation transfer?"

"Yeah. And before you ask, no, I've never used any sort of bath products besides basic bars of soap and scentless shampoo," I admit rather defensively.

I expect her to insult my Abnegation background, or maybe even pity it, but I'm wrong on both counts. Instead, her eyes light up with unbridled exuberance. "Oh honey, you have no idea what you just got yourself into."

 _Story of my freaking life._

And that was how I found myself two hours later lugging a massive basket filled with soaps, lotions, and hair products, all the way up the rocky path to the dorms. I had been utterly helpless in the wake of the beautiful tornado that was Natasha, and so had ultimately agreed to whatever items she had deemed 'utterly necessary.' Natasha had picked them out quickly enough, but had insisted on instructing me in their proper usage, and had even developed what she called a 'beauty routine' that I was to follow every day, _or else_.

The worst part was, she had managed to extract a promise that I'd come back in three days so that we could go clothes shopping together during her day off. Trying on clothes next to a busty goddess would no doubt prove to be just as pleasant as it sounded. Which is to say, not at all.

Still, I suppose it's not the worst thing to have ever happened to me. It might even be a good thing to have someone to force me to do these sorts of things, because otherwise, I'd never do them myself.

I finally get to the dorm room, which is loud and lively with the other initiates, who are still very much awake. Peter isn't there, so I assume he's still out trying to find a place.

Besides Christina's glare, nobody really bothers to acknowledge me, so I make my way to my bed, which just so happens to be… right next to Christina. Great.

"You're a sellout," she accuses the moment I sit down and start unloading the basket. "First you brownnose up to Eric, and now you're sidling up next to Peter? I mean, I get it. You want to make the cut and you can't do it on your own. But hell, did you ever consider that maybe I would've been willing to help you? No. Instead you went off with the biggest slimeballs in all of Dauntless."

It's such an absurd statement, on so many levels, that I can't help but laugh. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

Coming from Candor, the idea that she might not know the truth of things pisses her off even more. "Well then tell me!"

"Why should I?"

"Because I thought we were going to be friends!" she responds, actually sounding a little hurt.

I take a deep breath. "Look Christina. I'm sorry, but you don't know me at all. I don't _have_ friends. I do things on my own."

"So you're just using them," she concludes with an air of satisfaction. "You're just using Eric and Peter to get to the top."

I laugh again. "Nobody _uses_ Eric. Since I can see that you're not going to let this go, I'll just be straight with you. I have no idea why Eric spent so much time with me today. Maybe he was curious how a 'Stiff' transferred into Dauntless. Maybe it was because I was the first jumper. Maybe he was just bored. I don't know, and I'm certainly not stupid enough to ask. So there, are you happy yet?"

"Almost. What about Peter?" she prompts.

Her level of entitlement is stunning. What right does she have to know my motivations? I already told her more than I needed to.

"That's none of your business," I respond tersely.

"What, like it's some sort of secret?" she snorts. "Everyone saw you two at dinner. You guys were all over each other. I half expected him to unzip his pants and fuck you right there on the table."

"Not a bad idea," Someone drawls, slinging his arm around my shoulders. It's Peter, clothed in nothing but a damp towel slung low around his waist. "But I've got a better one. How about you keep your whore mouth shut? Nobody wants to hear whatever pervy thoughts you have about me and my girlfriend."

I blush a brilliant crimson while Christina's mouth drops at the word 'girlfriend'.

"Oh wow Tris," Peter states as he starts ruffling through the bottles of girly whatever-the-hell. "Trying to impress me or something?"

As he bends next to the bed, his towel slips a little lower, and my face is so hot with embarrassment that I'm surprised it hasn't exploded yet.

He's looking at me for a response, so I manage an unintelligible grunt.

"Wow. Just… wow," Christina scoffs. "Whatever Tris. You do you, I guess."

She stands and huffs across the center row over to Will, who looks away so quickly that I realize he's been watching us. They both start whispering to each other, no doubt gossiping about this recent development. It reminds me of why I try not to tell people things about me. Information is currency, and it's stupid to give it away for free.

"Hey, Earth to Tris," Peter whistles, waving his hand in front of my face where I had been staring at Christina and Will. I turn to glare at him.

"Yes, _darling_?"

"So sassy! And here I am trying to be your knight in shining armor," he tsks. "I just wanted to let you know that the showers are free. And I'll make sure nobody goes in while you're in there."

It's such a nice gesture, I'm honestly a little taken aback. "Why?"

"Why would I stop a bunch of dudes from staring at my naked girlfriend? Oh, I don't know," he rolls his eyes.

He's hovering quite close to me, so it's not that hard for me to lean up and whisper into his ear, "But I'm not actually your girlfriend."

My tone is low to prevent people from hearing us, but his damp nakedness, on top of his close proximity, gives the situation a sexual charge that I'm not entirely prepared for.

"Of course not," he whispers back, the words a throaty rumble against the skin of my neck. I wonder what it would feel like if Eric -

Peter suddenly pulls away, breaking my fantasy of grey eyes and cold steel. "Don't overcomplicate it, Stiff. The showers are yours if you want to use them. That's it."

And with that said, Peter walks away to start threatening the other initiates away from the showers, leaving me to my chaotic thoughts. A half naked guy whispered something against my neck, and the first person I thought of was Eric. What was _wrong_ with me?

The thought lingers long after I take my wonderfully uninterrupted and colorfully scented shower and settle in for the night.

Eric. Why do my thoughts keep going to Eric? Did I… but no, I couldn't. He was Eric, and I couldn't possibly… I mean, I'm me, and he's him. If he's friends with women like Natasha, then there's no way he'd give me a second glance. Especially not after I was so all over the place yesterday. If I even want him to continue teaching me, I can't keep messing up.

I need to be better. I need to up the ante. Because right now, laying in my bed in the dark with no other thoughts but my own, I can finally admit to myself that I want it. I want to be so freaking… so _fucking_ dangerous that people like Christina wouldn't dare demand answers from me. That beauties like Natasha would pale in comparison to my power. That boys like Peter would come to _me_ for help.

I want to be strong. Ruthless. Harder than iron. I want it all. And nobody is going to give it to me. In fact, people will fight me for the right to have it. But I'll get there. I'll win. I'll beat them all.

Why?

Because my name is Tris.

And I'm _Dauntless_.


End file.
